‘I’d recommend the reflexes test next, Mr Munroe,’ she replied, and a suspicion of a smile appeared on Eli’s lips.
Gently, he lifted the man’s hand, positioned in directly over the man’s nose, then let it drop. Magically, it didn’t hit the man on his nose as it should have done if he really was unconscious, but landed neatly at his side, and Eli let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.
‘I’m afraid it looks a lot more serious than I thought,’ he declared, and Brontë had to bite down hard on her lip to quell the chuckle she could feel bubbling inside her.
She’d come across cases like this before in A and E. Sometimes the patients were mentally ill, or drunk, but most often they faked unconsciousness to get themselves out of a sticky situation and, judging by the amount of alcohol the man had in his shopping trolley, she strongly suspected he was trying to get away without paying for it.
‘Eye socket test?’ she suggested, and Eli winked across at her.
If the man truly was deeply unconscious he would scarcely react, but if he wasn’t…Pushing hard against the upper part of his eye socket with your finger wouldn’t damage his sight but, by heavens, he would certainly feel it.
He did. At the first push, the man’s eyes flew open, and he sat up angrily, only to put his hand to his head with an unconvincing groan when he saw Brontë and Eli.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ he murmured in a faltering voice. ‘One minute I was about to pay for my groceries, and the next…I just came over all queer.’
‘It can happen,’ Eli agreed as he solicitously helped the man to his feet, ‘which is why I think you should go straight home to bed. Forget all about your shopping, you can do it tomorrow.’
‘But—’
‘No, please, don’t thank us,’ Eli continued, steering the man towards the supermarket door. ‘It’s all in a day’s—or should I say night’s—work for us.’
That the man wanted to do anything but thank them was clear, but that he also didn’t want to take on six feet two of muscular male was also apparent and, with a face like thunder, he walked out of the supermarket door and disappeared into the night.
‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how far some people will go to fake illness,’ Brontë declared as she followed Eli back to their ambulance. ‘I mean, if it was me, the last thing I’d want is someone performing a whole battery of tests on me if I knew I was perfectly okay.’
‘Yeah, well, when you’ve been in this game as long as I have, nothing seems strange any more,’ Eli replied. ‘I’m just surprised you’re surprised after seven years of A and E.’
She glanced across at him sharply. ‘If this is your not very subtle way of wanting to know why I left, forget it.’
‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying,’ he said with a broad smile, and she shook her head at him.
‘You know, I don’t think you actually do dump all your ex-girlfriends,’ she observed. ‘I think they dump you because you keep on asking the same old questions, and eventually they can’t stand it any more.’
‘Oh, very witty, very droll,’ he said drily. ‘And will you stop saying I dump women. I do not dump women. We just mutually decide when it’s over.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she said, not even bothering to try to look as though she believed him. ‘Do you want to know my theory as to why you’re taking a three-month dating sabbatical?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I think you got careless,’ Brontë declared, ignoring the irritation in his voice. ‘I think your last girlfriend got too close, and started bringing home wedding magazines, and stopping outside jewellers’ windows to point out engagement rings, and that freaked you good and proper, and now you’re trying to figure out where you went wrong.’
Eli’s lips twitched into not quite a smile.
‘That’s not a bad guess.’
‘And have you figured out where you went wrong?’ she asked, and his smile became rueful.
‘Not exactly. How long have you given up dating for?’
‘Permanently.’
‘Permanently?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hell, but someone sure did a number on you, didn’t they?’
She was saved from answering by the bleep of their radio, but when she lifted the receiver, the caller sounded uncharacteristically nervous.
‘I have a message for Eli,’ the anonymous voice announced. ‘Could you tell him Peg would like to see him asap.’
Brontë sighed with resignation as she switched off the receiver.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, turning to Eli. ‘Peg is yet another of your ex-girlfriends.’
He cleared his throat.
‘Actually, she’s a heroin addict. Turns tricks for a living. Male—female—doesn’t matter to her so long as the punter will pay enough to fund her habit.’
Brontë blinked.
‘And how do you know her?’ she asked without thinking, then flushed scarlet when she realised how that might sound. ‘Sorry—forget it—none of my business.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘But Peg…’ He chewed his lip, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘She caught pneumonia two winters back. My partner, Frank, and I saw her lying in the street so we picked her up and took her to hospital. Ever since then…’ Eli shrugged. ‘She seems to feel she owes me something, so if a youngster tries to tag along with her, and her friends, she let’s me know, and sometimes I’m able to help, to turn them around before it’s too late.’
And I feel like the lowest form of pond life, Brontë thought as she stared at him awkwardly. She wished she hadn’t jumped to conclusions. She wished even more she could figure out the man sitting next to her. One minute he was a completely shameless flirt, a serial dumper of women, then he unexpectedly turned into the Good Samaritan. It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t make any sense.
‘Do you want to go and see her now?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘It’s not a logged case, Brontë,’ he replied. ‘We’re only supposed to answer logged calls, not personal ones.’
‘And I didn’t hear that,’ she said. ‘Where does Peg live?’
‘Are you serious?’ he said, and Brontë huffed impatiently.
‘Just give me the address, Eli.’
‘She…’ He rubbed his chin awkwardly. ‘She doesn’t exactly “live” anywhere. She—and her friends—camp out most nights by Greyfriars Church.’
Greyfriars Church. It was hardly the most hospitable of places in the daytime but, on a freezing-cold November night, Brontë couldn’t think of a more miserable place to be, and her opinion didn’t change when they reached the church and she saw the black, locked gates.
‘Where’s your friend?’ she asked as she and Eli got out of the ambulance.
‘Inside.’
‘Inside?’ she repeated as he retrieved a medi-bag. ‘You mean, she sleeps amongst the tombstones?’
‘Yup.’ Eli nodded, then his teeth gleamed white in the darkness. ‘Not afraid of ghosts, I hope?’
Only my own, Brontë thought, but she didn’t say it.
‘I’ve